Anschluss
by Vyscaria
Summary: Roderich hears the German tanks rolling in, and knows that nothing will be the same again. Like a crescendo of inevitable events, the Second World War unfolds before him. The Third Reich collapses, and millions die in the holocaust. Austria has blood on his hands, and no one is left to save him. Slash Germany/Austria, heavy on history and music. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Anschluss

**Pairing:** Onesided Germany/Austria (Ludwig/Roderich)

**Warnings: **Semi-explicit rape, descriptions of death, coarse language, M/M slash. Prepare for many OCs.

* * *

_December, 1937_

The invasion of Austria, and in turn Vienna by the German forces was inevitable. Roderich knew this, and so did the rest of the populace to some extent. He'd heard tittering during concert intermissions, seen it scrawled on the brick walls of old buildings. Even children spoke of the inevitable joining, words they'd overheard and learned from stolen bits and pieces of their parents' conversations.

_Anschluss._

Roderich could not imagine Austria under German occupation, could not imagine Vienna, the city he'd grown up in, with no Mozart or Scarlatti or Debussy or Strauss, whose name was almost synonymous with Austria itself. However, he could imagine the day it would happen, though. He imagined German tanks parading through the town to chants, imagined Austria giving itself away without a struggle, without so much as a single shot fired. And then there would be no more music.

~x~

_Music._

It was his life, the very breath of his being that would otherwise require none. He lived through his music, lived the life of his people through each waltz and crescendo and rest, and knew it all by heart and more.

He'd heard many of Mahler's symphonies, been to a Schoenberg concert, he even practiced on a concert sized _Bechstein_ at home. He was never lonely, for in Austria the music flowed in the streets, and he could always find companions that shared his same passion. Although he was the personification of the Austrian nation, it did not mean that he could not go to concerts or sit in cafes or do such things that any normal person could do- he would just have to be more careful. Sometimes he had to move every few years or do something of to sort to hide the fact that he wasn't aging, and he found it generally easier to keep few close friends, instead making accomplices that would not miss you much if, say, one day you were supposedly hit by 'one of them cars'.

Tonight, he was visiting his favorite theater.

The busy streets were overflowing with people out to see the concert, where Erich Fruehauf was to unveil his newest protégé. Roderich entered the Athena theatre and passed the great statue of the Greek goddess, bathed in gold and maroon and chrome blue, shaking off his heavy coat of snow. He was then immediately being greeted by one of the night's performers. The theatre was so filled with people cramming into the auditorium that they fell just short of shouting in order to converse. With a weary grin, he shook hands with a tuxedo-clad man, the flesh of their hands gloved and never touching. "Hello there, Oktav, has your cello quite recovered?"

The raven haired man shook his head in the negative, looking both overjoyed and very concerned. "Nein, Roderich. I sent it off to Holtz's shop like you said, but he has not returned it.

Roderich paled, and quickly stammered an apology, "he is known to be very punctual, so I apologize. I will pass by his shop on my way home, perhaps I could drop in."

The performer again shook his head, "Nein, Roderich; it is not necessary, friend. The important thing is that I do have a cello to perform with tonight, unlike that last time. It's an 1870 Mittenmald that he has in his shop right now; I hope he's taking care of it. Come with me…"

"Then I do hope you can manage. I could never play with an instrument not of my own at a concert- it just doesn't feel right." Oktav led him into the auditorium through a special door reserved for performers, and Roderich's words died on his lips

"Ah," he stammered, and immediately felt the urge to run away. Erich Fruehauf, a lively blond man of about forty or so, stood in the centre of a ring of his performers and students and raged. Sheet music was sent flying in the air and young performers cowered, though most were used to Fruehauf's tempers. Oktav somehow got his attention, and the compositor calmed noticeably when he saw Roderich. In fact, his expression seemed to have morphed from devastation to elation.

"_Gut, gut!_ It is my good friend Roderich, ja? He will help us!"

And so Roderich found himself that night not a spectator of one of the largest concert events of the year, but a last minute pianist. And as he had claimed, it did not feel right. This piano was a Bösendorfer and everything down to the pressure it took for each key to be pressed was different in some minute way. But Roderich would manage- these were but small changes.

~x~

"What happened to Anina?" Roderich asked at the end of the show, after all the applause and the bowing had been done, after everyone had gone home and the auditorium was still as night and utterly silent.

Erich looked at him with tired eyes and offered him a cigar, which his companion declined politely. With a shrug, Erich lit his own cigar and took a deep drag of the stuff, exhaling slowly with eyes closed. "She went to Germany to visit family and never came back."

Roderich felt a clenching in his stomach, "which part of Germany?"

And Erich, ever short tempered, retorted that it didn't matter which part, "the Nazis are everywhere, and they'll find you if you're not exactly what they want you to be. It doesn't matter to them if some mistakes are made; the point now is that Anina might never come back, and I'll have to find a new pianist. The process is so complicated that I don't even want to bother with it. There is a Japanese saying that people are like teabags. One does not know another man's strength unless one sticks him in hot water."

"Tonight's performance was very nice."

To this Erich chuckled, "I should hope so!" and twisted in the small auditorium chair that overlooked the stage. Here they were just two spectators looking over a silent orchestra. "And what did you think of Joachim?"

"Your new protégé is very talented, very much so for his age, I must add. Although I did take note that you did not refer to him as such. Why is that?"

The blonde compositor smiled forlornly, blowing out another puff of rank smoke, "the boy's talent speaks for itself; he doesn't need any such fluff. Sure, he's very young, can barely hold that violin as it is, but the sound he gets from that _Geigenbaumeifter_ is divine. He also practices piano, a big fan of Debussy. You met him in Paris once, didn't you?" He spoke very quickly, almost like he was rushing to get his words out.

Roderich nodded haltingly, "yes, I met Debussy once, but that's it." A comfortable silence stretched for a few moments between the two men, one enjoying his cigar and the other contemplating today's newspaper.

"Why did you come to Vienna, Erich?" Roderich asked suddenly, a small frown drawing at his face. He pulled off his concert gloves and examined the length of his nails as Erich chuckled again,

"Why not Vienna?"

Roderich took a deep breath, "I suppose the better question is: Why are you still here? You ran from Germany, but you must understand by now that Austria will soon be part of it. It is inevitable." It almost hurt him to say it.

Erich studied him curtly, "it seems like you're the one who needs convincing, Edelstein. Yes, I know what is inevitable will eventually come, but you must understand that Vienna –_Austria_- is very different from Germany. It is so stiff and repressed where I came from, you could not even imagine. And it is still that way, you see. The Nazis see everything in black and white, but Vienna is a rainbow."

Masking a disbelieving sound behind a cough, the Austrian looked to his German companion with curiosity, "and how so?"

"From my home in Bergasse," Erich started, crushing what was left of his cigar, "I hear the opera houses each and every morning. Shubert, Wagner, Mozart… Music is the very blood of the streets, if they were Austria's veins. Each afternoon the cafés rejoice to a thé dansant, and it is there that I meet sometimes with Professor Freud for coffee."

"You are so blessed to know him," Roderich smiled, inwardly overflowing with pride, "you are right, but sometimes I think that music is all Austria is."

"Nein, nein," Erich picked up another cigar from a suit pocket, examined it and tucked it away with effort, his speech becoming faster and faster, "Vienna is a city of great ingenuity, of Herzl and Freud and many more. I love Vienna, love its fripperies and its magic, I love all of it." And then his voice dropped a few octaves to nearly a whisper, "But you are right; Austria will soon be part of Germany, and things will change. I may well have to leave."

"Where will you go?"

"I've applied for a United States Visa, but one never knows where one will end up. Nothing is certain. Perhaps I'll even go to London, though I'll have to say goodbye to all my summer clothes. I heard it rains a hundred and sixty-five days a year there."

The lights to the auditorium abruptly shut off, and the clinking of keys were heard as the janitorial staff retired for the night. "Well then," Erich said, rising from his seat, "I suppose I'll see you again, friend. If I do leave, you'll be notified. In the meantime, I must search for a good pianist."

"Tonight's performance was very nice."

"Where are you getting at, Edelstein? Thank you very much, now I'm quite tired and-"

"What about me, Fruehauf?"

And Erich looked Roderich up and down from head to toe, his face inscrutable and cold as stone. "I suppose you'll do."

~x~

Viktor's shop had closed, the signs taken down, the doors locked and the windows barred.

"Where did he go off to?" Roderich breathed in disbelief, "and why would he just close his shop like that without giving back his commissions? It seems very unlike him. I am so sorry, Oktav. He has never failed me once, I cannot understand…"

"Nein, Roderich," Oktav said again for the third time that day, "I understand. He is Jewish, you see."

Austria felt his face redden, "how dare you think that! Do not listen to the Germans; I tell you, they are all lies. Jews are not all thieves, especially not Viktor. He was a very dear friend of mine and-"

"Nein, Roderich," the young raven haired man spoke slowly and with precision, in much the same manner as he liked to play his cello, "the Jews must run, the Nazis are coming. I do not blame your friend for being keen. In fact, I hope he has sold my cello for a good price, for the economy is not very forgiving these days."

~x~

A man with a pointed nose and long trench coat met another in front of the Café Bouleverse, and struck up a conversation. Both were freezing but were not keen to enter the café, for doing so together would imply that they were getting coffee together and perhaps even sitting together and conversing as friends, and they were very much not so. "You are that compositor whose concert I went to last week, are you not? Your pianist was very good that night, but he was a replacement, was he not?"

Erich smiled faintly, finding the other man's way or ending his sentences with questions oddly endearing, "Ja, and he was a very good replacement. I think I might keep him."

"You best should. He is a good friend of mine, and more Viennese than Strauss or even snowglobes. He will never disappear on you, if you know what I mean?"

"Ja, that is if I don't disappear first," Erich muttered grudgingly, the subject of leaving Austria on count of the inevitable union now common conversation in the streets. "But Edelstein… It's a Jewish name, is it not?"

"I believe so, though you will have to ask the man himself. Nonetheless I believe he should be safe if the Anschluss comes through. I honestly can't imagine him anywhere else but in Vienna in either case, you know?"

Erich stared hard at the stranger, noting that his coat was really far too long and unnaturally stuffy, and his pockets were bulging. He also seemed to speak with a kind of bitterness that indicated that he had been through much. Erich stuck out a gloved hand. "Erich Fruehauf, conductor and composer."

The stranger shook it, eyes never leaving Erich's face, "Viktor Holtz."

~x~

_Consent._

It's a funny thing.

It is at one end completely necessary for an action to be dealt, and on the other hand completely unnecessary. Austria remembers one of England's reprimands to America, then just a child, "Yes, you can have a scone. You are very much physically able to, but the question is, _may_ you have a scone?"

The comparison hadn't really ever left him since. Austria had been conquered before, had fought and lost battles and wars and so such- none of it was new. But never in a battle had he ever surrendered without so much as a gunshot. Never was so much at stake. His country would surrender under the rule of its scattered government, and his people… Well, their intentions were scattered as well. Some were rushing to flee the oncoming Nazi occupation, others gladly awaiting Hitler's arrival in their homes.

And when German tanks roll into Vienna's streets in parade, Germany would claim Austria as his own, and consent was not necessary at all. The problem with Austria was that he felt each of his people, felt equal love for one man of pure Viennese descent as he would for one Jew, gypsy or homosexual of Austrian citizenship. They were all the same to him, and so this is why he knew he would not join his crowds in cheering 'Heil Hitler', for those crowds didn't represent all of Austria, not at all.

In the end he worked consent out to be strictly a moral issue. Too bad morals were created on the basis of structured, peaceful civilian life. And with Hitler's questionable intentions looming over the horizon, the status of the world's peace could be widely debated.

~x~

_March, 1938_

After a mess of a plebiscite, a torrent of threats and a government miscalculation, Austria was on the brink of Anschluss, and the world knew it

England and France protested weakly, watching for any sign of Austrian dissent like cats waiting at a mouse hole. So far, most of Austria seemed to be undeniably for or indifferent to the inevitable union. The Treaty of Versailles had long been pronounced dead in the hearts of Germans, and there was absolutely nothing stopping the Anschluss.

"Are you alright?" Oktav put down his cello and rushed to Roderich's side by the _Bösendorfer._ "You seem ill."

"I- I am fine, let's… Let's continue…"

"Nein, Roderich," said Oktav, "I think we've practiced enough for the day. We can do it again tomorrow if you like…"

But Roderich shook his head resolutely, "Debussy will not wait." And he continued to hammer out almost violently the notes of _Jardins sous la pluie _until its notes melded into an angry mélange resembling torrents of rain, wild and uncontrollable, untamable. He played like he never played before, the volume of his notes reaching almost obnoxious heights.

"Stop! Stop! Nein, Roderich!" Oktav shouted, flailing his arms in a most un-gentlemanly like manner, "Roderich, what is wrong with you today? Please, let me call us a cab and take you home."

Austria kept playing, a single tear streaking down his left cheek. He felt the thumping of his heart against his chest, felt the rolling of the German tanks shaking his every bone, knew they were coming. Whether or not Adolf Hitler would lead them to glory was insignificant; when they came, there would be no more Debussy.

~x~

Roderich locked his doors but Oktav snuck in through an opened window. Somehow he'd managed to bring his concert cello with him, how he managed to do so climbing into a window he couldn't imagine.

"Roderich, Roderich," Oktav called, storming into his personal piano room where he was, for once, not practicing. "Hitler has come," he said with a big gasp, "even my little sister is excused from school to watch the advancement they're calling a parade. H-have you seen it?"

"Nein, Oktav," Roderich said solemnly, laughing a little despite himself in imitating the other man, "I have not seen the parade, nor do I want to."

"Why not? …Roderich, you look ill."

"I think you should leave, Oktav."

Silence, then…

"Nein, Roderich. I will not."

With a sigh, Austria turned to glare coldly at the man who'd not only broken into his home but now refused to leave. "What do you want?" He snapped.

More silence, and then Oktav entered the room, closed the door behind him and lovingly removed his worn and beaten concert cello from its case. His old one seemed not to be missed, something Roderich didn't know if he should be amused or insulted by.

"You played Debussy all night long last week," Oktav said quietly, fingering the strings of his cello, "I myself quite like Kodaly. You're the only one I can trust to listen without fail, Roderich, so would you please? I want to play it one more time, one last time to an audience I care for before… Before…"

Oktav spoke no more, just picked up his cello and started to play the cello portion of what Roderich recognized as Kodaly's _Hary Janos_. It was a slow, sad thing that dragged on through the day and Oktav never stopped playing. He played the portion over and over again, improvising to make the loop feel complete and natural, and he never stopped. And Roderich never stopped watching him, and together they shed tears over the death of their passion, the death of the very same music that made Austria so magical and beautiful. They shed tears over things they couldn't understand but felt in their bones, and while the crowds cheered on outside, the two lost themselves in Kodaly's fairytale world.

When afternoon came, Oktav abruptly stopped his performance and took a long, shaky breath, looking anywhere but at the Austrian pianist. "Good night, Roderich."

"Good night, Oktav," Roderich said numbly, and although Oktav packed up and left through the front door with an unfathomable efficiency, his music haunted Roderich long after.

~x~

Ludwig Beilschmidt was taken aside from the parade of tanks and soldiers by a clearly inebriated Viennese man of about thirty or so. He was embraced and nearly even kissed on the cheek, had he not had the reflexes to quickly push the other man away. The drunkard fell to the ground in laughter, and a woman who Luduwig assumed must be his wife rushed forward to pick him up. It seemed the man was not well liked, for the crowd around him that recognized him started shooting him glares, and one man shouted, "What's happened, Adamski? Were you not so opposed to the Anschluss just last night?"

To this the drunkard Adamski flailed his arms against his wife's grasp and laughed maniacally, shouting "Heil Hitler!" at the top of his lungs. But his credibility was shattered when he suddenly erupted into loud, grievous sobs, burying his reddened face in his wife's bosom.

Ludwig fell back into the parade and pretended that he never left. Instead, he looked to the sea of waving Austrian people, smiling and laughing and genuinely happy they were here, and felt himself become taller. Adolf Hitler would save him from the shame of Versailles, and would re-unite all German peoples as a single volk. The toil of German farmers and blood of Aryan soldiers would raise Deutchland from the dirt and give it a place in the sun. From then, Germany would grow strong again.

~x~

Despite all that Austria claimed, the fuck was not at all easy by any terms. Roderich resisted every step of the way, all the while claiming compliance. It was a horrible insult to Ludwig, who found himself utterly unable to unbutton Roderich's vest because his hands were shaking so. It did not help that the jacket he'd torn off of him moments ago seemed to have somehow mysteriously re-appeared around Roderich's shoulders when he next looked up, and it was a hassle to get it off again.

One would think that Roderich was being a tease if he hadn't been so serious. The more Austria seemed to struggle, the more need Germany felt, crashing against his diaphragm like waves against a rocky shore, pushing the air utterly out of him. He wanted Roderich, and he wanted him badly. Off came the vest, several buttons popped, and with a single practiced pull, away came the lace bunched up at his neck.

The boots dropped, Roderich's gloves were peeled away, even his glasses were taken off. So that he would not see what was being done to him, what was about to befall his people.

What followed could not be called anything but a fuck, however vulgar it may sound. Sweat clung to hair and animalistic grunts hung in the air, two men rutting against a couch and then on the floor, and suddenly Roderich grew very, very still, and Ludwig pounded into a pliant, boneless body. Then the German finally finished soon after, spending himself so deep that no one could dispute that they were now indeed one.

"My dear Roderich, why don't you go play me something?" Ludwig asked when they had recovered somewhat from the high. Roderich wouldn't look at him. "Come on, then," said Ludwig, seeming slightly guilty that he seemed to have caused Roderich a fair bit of misery, "play something if you must. I know you are itching to express your anger or whatever through the piano."

Roderich snuck a glance at his blue eyed lover- _no, that wasn't right_. Roderich pushed the thought from his mind and started to dress himself when a hand pulled on his, "Nein, just play as you are."

And so Roderich approached his piano nearly stark naked and sat on its seat, back ramrod straight and never having felt so exposed in his life. No sooner had his fingers met his piano keys for the first time had Ludwig spoke up from behind, reminding Roderich cruelly that he was indeed now under German rule. Ludwig chose his words very well.

"_Ostmark_, I would much prefer if you played a German piece. Say… _Bach?"_

And the reality of Anschluss finally slapped him in the face, and although Roderich actually very much liked Bach, being forced to play any music against his will was something he was not used to. And while he hammered out the notes of Bach's _concerto no.7 in G minor_ he knew almost by heart, he snuck in bits and pieces of Debussy's _Jardins sous la pluie _for himself and a bit of Kodaly's _Hary Janos_ for Oktav, and just because Ludwig would know no better and still hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, Shubert's _Allegro, ma non troppo_ for Erich. It was the mixing of Austrian, Hungarian, French and German, and it was Roderich's last tribute before Austria's colors were washed away.

~x~

Erich had been right; the Nazis did see everything in black and white. People were either Aryan or scum. Art was either acceptable or degenerate. Roderich was shocked to see the Athena theatre undergoing a major reconstruction; or rather it was a repainting. The beautiful life-sized statue of Athena, the one that was the pride and joy of the theatre itself, was painted hastily in chalk white by uniformed German workmen. Never again would the masterful mix of chromes and golds and velvet reds be seen.

Paintings were taken off the walls and some were painted over, much to the distraught of the theatre's owner, Ralf Schumacher. "Mein Gott," he murmured to Roderich as he saw the Austrian approach, "this is horrible, horrible."

And Roderich could say nothing. The uniformed men before them worked with a startling efficiency, and in fact they worked like slaves. Another painting, a big one sporting a great mix of colors and shapes seemed impossible to take off, so they painted over it.

"Is- is that a Picasso?" Roderich breathed, watching the colors disappear under a coat of thick white.

"Nein, it's a replica. Thank Gott I didn't think once about buying the real one, or we'd be watching that disappear, too." Schumacher removed his top hat from the crown of his balding head and ran a hand over what hairs he had left up there, "it's all the same to a paint roller, I suppose." He turned to Roderich abruptly, "this reminds me- are you not performing tonight for Herr Fruehauf?"

"Why yes, I am. I hope the times have not changed?"

Schumacher paused, noticing the choice of words before even Roderich himself did. He responded carefully, "Fruehauf still composes and the performances still continue… for now."

~x~

The smell of paint was still heavy in the air as the theatre opened for its night show. Roderich had come in his best attire, and was once again led through a special door reserved for performers. This time, though, he felt no joy and he had no difficulty conversing in quiet tones with Oktav. The whole theatre was shocked silent. Not only had the beautiful walls gone and not only was the prize-winning sculpture now similar to any other, but the night could potentially be ruined.

"They've done it, Roderich, they've done it," Erich spat, shoving a slightly crumpled sheet of paper at the Austrian, "They've banned fucking _Midsummer's Night's Dream_. And look what else!"

In Roderich's hands was a long list of pieces the theatre was no longer allowed to play. Down the list were two pieces scheduled for tonight. "Mein Gott…"

"God will not help us now, Roderich," Erich raged again, face reddening like an overripe tomato, "We'll have to play Bach!"

"What's wrong with Bach?" Oktav asked dumbly, and he almost had a music stand hurled at him. Erich was frightening when he was angry, most everyone knew that, but he'd never turned violent before.

"We've got only one Cellist now, and we've had to replace two violinists and a trombone, not to mention Luca and Sonja- we'll never find proper replacements for them. My _fucking prize student_ has disappeared overnight, not to mention that one of the replacements has a screwed tempo! Goddamn!" And Erich seemed to crumple into himself, "this is impossible- the Nazis have made music impossible."

And it hurt more than anything to hear that out of the mouth of one of Roderich's citizens and friends. "Music will not die," he said simply, dragging Erich up by the shoulders and shaking him, "Austria will never be silent. They can suppress us all they want, they can ban all they want, but music will forever flow through the veins of Austria's streets. Wasn't that what you had said?"

But Erich fixed him with a look that scared him, "this isn't just about the orchestra, Roderich. We can indeed manage the music, sure enough." and he seemed to have gained him calm once again, tugging at the laces of his sleeves and cleared his throat. With a sharp inhale, he pulled Roderich close to him and whispered in his ear, "Ah, and… You may want to consider changing your surname."

That night of Bach and Mozart was the last time Roderich laid eyes on Erich Fruehauf. Those who left were wise, for the Nazis quickly put police on the streets. The Jewish were made to wear yellow stars, and it was common practice for the police to harass the Jews or anyone seen with them. Shops were banned from selling to Jews, and the Jews were hence banned from entering German shops. Those Austrians with pure blood threw themselves into the _volksgemeinschaft_ with a passion, eagerly ratting out their Jewish neighbours and weeding out the competition to their businesses. They were ready to accept the complete discrimination against the Jews, who had stabbed Germany in the back and caused its loss of the First World War, who were overrunning Austrian industries and dominating the economy. They were ready to turn a blind eye to their suffering- after all, the _Juuden_ were more like animals than people.

~x~

_March, 1939 or even 1940_

A uniformed German stopped a certain Austrian on the streets in front of a pastry shop, and asked him his name and home address. Without complaint, he handed over his proof of identity that was meant to protect him. He was not a Jew, after all. After the German brusquely looked over it, Roderich was promptly given a brown, white and black swastika armband to wear. He put it on without question.

"Edelstein… What kind of name is that?" The German soldier dusted off his coat absently, more out of habit than anything, "you don't look like a Jew."

"That's because I'm not," Roderich snapped back, "I'm pure Austrian; Edelstein is my grandfather's middle name, and when he died, our family adopted it to honor him." It was a story he'd repeated time and time again, so much so that it came out of him like a slew of practiced words, devoid of feeling.

The German kept his gaze on him, and then shrugged. "You don't look like a Jew."

~x~

"Where is your mother?" Roderich asked a young girl in a dirtied white dress, "you should not be roaming the streets alone." She looked no older than six.

Said young girl, after having apologized for bumping into the Austrian, grinned toothily. "Mein muuti ist tot."

Roderich swallowed thickly, "and where is your father?"

"Mein vaati ist tot."

"S-since when? What happened to them?" Roderich ploughed the girl with questions, and it seemed that she all but did not understand what had just occurred.

"Men took them away and then they told me they were dead. They put a hole on our wall and I can see my staircase from the outside now! They told me to come outside and play so here I am." The young girl's grin never once faltered. "What does 'dead' mean, mister?"

"I-it means they've gone somewhere."

"Will they be back for supper?"

"Ah… Nein…"

The grin dropped, and the little girl looked down at her shoes. "Then… can you take me home, Mister?"

Before Roderich could speak, a burly German grabbed the girl roughly by a thin shoulder and yanked her back from the Austrian, "Nein, I will take her. She is Juuden."

The girl nodded, "my name is Eliza, mister!" And she was being led away by the German soldier, and Roderich's protests died on his tongue when Ludwig cast a long, sideways glare at him.

~x~

Consent. It's a strange thing. To give consent is purely metaphorical- there is no physical item that depicts it and therefore no proof of it unless one writes a contract. A contract. Roderich had mused before that consent was based on a moral issue, and that morality itself was created to serve a peaceful, civilian society. Now that the world was undeniably at war, morality itself could not even present itself as an argument.

It has now been more than a year after Anschluss, and Austria both changed and remained unchanged. Nonetheless, if one knew where to look, one could hear the quiet protests in the gutters and the general feeling of suffocation lurking around corners. In fact, what truly lurked around every corner was a German soldier, and Roderich made sure to wear his swastika armband whenever he went outside.

A key was mailed to him, along with a short note.

Roderich set out at once, pulling on his coat and boots and combing his hair as he went about into the street, not wanting to waste a moment. Music indeed still flowed through Austria's streets, but the opera houses thrilled to a different tune nowadays. Roderich saw every day as he walked past the town prison the lines and lines of Jewish men and women, having been rounded up by the Nazis, and he saw their faces. He saw them looking at him with such contempt, such disgust, such envy, such devastation, and it killed him inside to walk past them with his white gloved hands and shiny boots.

Today, there were but a few lined up in front of the prison. There had been rumors that the Nazi regime was loosening its hold on Austria, and it seemed it might be true, at least for Vienna. He passed its gray walls and fences of barbed wire, finding the small alleys which led to Erich Fruehauf's home. Up the staircase he went, until he reached the 4th apartment, the 41st room, and inserted the key he had been mailed. The door slid open without so much as a creak, and Roderich slipped in.

He didn't even know empty had a smell until today. Erich's apartment was rather small but it seemed to have been richly decorated at one point; light spots where paintings once hung made rectangular shapes on the powdered ochre red wall, and the plank floor was dusty in some places, a particular patch of dust on the ground resembling the bottom of a piano. There were two desks in the room in total and a small bed, sheets unmade and more junk was scattered over the floor; pages of sheet music, blank and half-drawn, coffee mugs and teabags and envelopes and all that. The room was painfully stripped of furnishings, and it was obvious that it was no longer lived in.

Roderich had not seen Fruehauf in almost two years, and had to wonder what it was that could possibly be waiting for him here. The man would have taken all of his valuables with him, like the _Geigenbaumeifter _he had let Joachim play before the boy was taken away in the night, and of course all his compositions.

He found what he was looking for tucked behind two large unpainted oil canvases. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on for a long time; a _Giuseppe_ 1743 Cello, its once glossy surface bearing innumerable scratches but still shining with a radiance that was utterly captivating. Roderich breathed out, swearing uncharacteristically at the sight of the beautiful instrument. He was almost glued to the spot, and would easily have stood there for the better part of the day, just admiring the cello had he not heard footsteps leading to the room. Before he could conceal the cello behind the canvases, the door to the apartment was kicked open and two German men entered both wearing SS uniforms. Roderich recognized one of them and was about to utter a greeting when two gun barrels were suddenly pointed to his body.

"Where is your swastika?" one of them barked, and Roderich quickly raised both his hands in surrender and turned to show his left arm, which bore the symbol. The weapons were not lowered, and instead the same soldier growled, "why are you in the home of Fruehauf?"

"I-why _not?_"

"Erich Fruehauf is a criminal, and an enemy of the state. By the Fuhrer's name, he is to be killed on the spot, as is with any of his accomplices. Are you one?"

Roderich figured Germans were always this blunt. "Nein, I am not. I do not know what it is you are speaking of; I have not heard any such things of him. I am here to," here he glanced at the cello behind him, hands still raised above his head, "to pick up a cello I left with him when I preformed with him at the Athena theatre."

The two Germans studied the cello in question. It was obvious that neither of them had any musical knowledge to understand its beauty and significance. A short, whispered banter passed between the two men, and the one who'd spoken the whole time shook his head, and then turned to Roderich, "my friend here says you are not Juuden, but if you are stealing this cello, I believe you must be."

"I am not stealing it!"

"That's impossible, since Jews are not educated enough to read and play music." And with that, a shot rang out that thundered through the whole building. It was a sound not uncommon to hear at these days; Roderich scarcely flinched. He could not, however, stifle his pained groan when he saw where the bullet went.

The beautiful _Giuseppe _nowsported a long crack down its right side and a clean bullet hole that exited out the other end. It was now possible to see into the very grain of the wood that made the cello, so deep and wide the crack was. Roderich thought he might cry, his knees had grown so weak.

The gun barrel turned to him. "If you are not a Jew, prove it."

With shaking hands, Roderich picked up the ruined cello and set it awkwardly against his body. This cello was for Oktav. Roderich himself had never played much for cello before- he was not very good at it. With a slight hesitation, he began to pull out the notes of _Bach's Cello Suite no.3, the sixth movement. _It was a sad sound to hear through the ruined cello, its echo being terrible and horribly dry due to the crack. The Germans had heard enough.

"Well, well, you hold it like an Austrian. I suppose he is right. You don't look like a Jew."

But they took Roderich with them anyway, shouting_ links, links, schnell, schnell!_ and making an intimidating scene even though the Austrian did not struggle.

~x~

He was led past the fences of barbed wire and into the prison, and it was uncharacteristically, bizarrely quiet. And though it was heavy and awkward, Roderich wouldn't let go of the _Giuseppe_ despite being threatened with death- it was too precious.

He sat in a waiting cell for hours, clutching the ruined cello before finally Ludwig appeared, striding past the cell casually on his way to report something or another. He nearly tripped over himself when he caught sight of Austria. Biting back a chuckle, Ludwig and entered the cell and slid its gate closed behind him with standard German efficiency.

"What are you doing in here?" the blond asked, leaning against the iron bars.

"I don't know."

"What's that you have in your hands, there?"

"It's a cello, a _Giuseppe_ 1743 Cello."

And it was obvious that Ludwig had not understood and did not care. "You must be more careful from now on. Why don't you come live with me?"

"Nein, it is not necessary. I can get along well on my own."

Ludwig did not seem convinced. He took two steps forward, and already he was directly in front of the Austrian, so small was the cell. The German got down on one knee and wordlessly pressed a gloved hand to Roderich's cheek. The hand was withdrawn almost immediately, replaced by an ungloved one. Ludwig's hand was cold, even colder than the leather of his glove.

"You have gotten thinner," Ludwig murmured huskily, "you are not eating well enough." When Roderich did not answer, just let himself be pulled in for a light peck on the lips, Ludwig drew back and sighed. "Your people are very happy, so what's the matter?"

"Not all of them are happy, not all."

"What do you want, then? What can I do to make you happy? Not your people- just you?" Ludwig's breath stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol, and the tips of his fingers were stained with the stuff. Those fingers now tangled themselves in hair that Roderich kept so carefully groomed at all times, and those cold, cold lips had found themselves on his neck. The cello was dropped and crashed hard against the floor.

Roderich finally understood why the prison was so empty, so quiet. It used to be chock full of Jews, spilling out into the outside courtyard. But today it was quiet. Because there were no more Jews to be found.

* * *

End of Chapter 1.

* * *

**"Mein muuti/vaati ist tot"** - My mother/father is dead.

**"Links", "Shnell"** - Hurry up.

Hopefully my research has been correct. I actually know close to nothing about classical music; I read up on it extensively for the sake of this fic. If there are obvious mistakes or inaccuracies, please do not hesitate to let me know.

My vision for this piece was to explore the Second World War's influence on Austria through music, and through his interaction with civilians. Personally, I always imagined nations living among the people. Also, we see lots of stories about people surviving the holocaust in the camps- but what about the people who weren't Jewish? The situation is complicated; the desire for unification, German propaganda, genuine belief in Hitler, and also the anti-semitism that was already present before the Nazi regime made the holocaust possible.

Most Germans were completely behind Hitler- though it is questionable as to whether or not he rose to and consolidated his power legally, he made some dramatic changes for the better once he was in power. For example, he _eradicated_ German unemployment. This, along with various other factors including his charisma, caused most Germans to follow him unconditionally. Germany was shamed after the treaty of** Versailles** of WW1, placing all the blame of the war on Germany and causing economic collapse. Hitler wanted to unite the people into a single **volk**, the movement being **_volksgemeinschaft_**, so they could rise up for war and to serve the state.

This is pretty heavy on history and pretty heavy on atmosphere- not everyone's cup of tea, but I think this fandom needs more of it. As for Roderich's character, I went and ran with it. Unfortunately, war changes people.

**Please review and let me know your thoughts.** One more chapter to go.


	2. Chapter 2

Two men sat side by side on a park bench. The day was windy and they were a strange sight, for no one cared to sit out in the cold in such weather. One of them was reading a newspaper that was crinkled with the billowing wind, sometimes pages ripping, the other calmly sitting and throwing bits of bread down onto the floor for the pigeons. In a few years' time, this sort of wastage would be unthinkable.

"France has already surrendered!" Oktav seemed amazed, "it's but been twelve days."

Roderich did not look up from his task, "I suppose the English troops will have to defend it, no?" He thought of Francis and how he must be coping with such a loss. Then he thought of Arthur. Good, literate Arthur who used to see his Austrian symphonies and discuss art and literature and the like with him. Where was he now? Somewhere in a bloody field, face kissed with mud, most likely.

His lips quirked slightly. "Say, Oktav. What have you done with the cello?"

The newspaper was at last folded away, "I have sold it."

"Whatever for?"

"Roderich, it has a hole in it."

"…We could have gotten it fixed."

"Ah, but your Viktor friend is still gone. Who else can you trust at this time? What makes you think no one will steal it anyway?"

Both men were undeniably weary. The theatre was on a temporary hiatus, and the two Austrians found themselves unemployed. It was not an issue for Roderich, but Oktav was very unnerved by it. In these times, unemployed was the worst thing to be, but even worse was being a Jew. By this time they'd all heard about what the Germans were doing to the Jews in concentration camps. They turned their faces and pretended not to hear. If Octav could not find employment soon, he'd be drafted into the army.

"I hear the Germans are boiling down the Eiffel Tower to make guns." Oktav said, nudging Roderich playfully on the arm. The two men laughed, though none of it was funny. War was not funny, but sometimes not laughing killed.

* * *

More than a hundred thousand Austrian men became part of the Waffen SS force. It seemed like the country was in complete alliance with Germany, but still when Ludwig held out his hand, Roderich did not take it.

The theatre never reopened. Schumacher was nowhere to be found. Rumors went that he fled toEngland, but he could easily be dead and rotting somewhere. The war was taking its toll on everyone. Oktav's sister had recently died from the flu, and his mother went mad. His father was off fighting in the whermacht, and Oktav was left to care for his mother. He found a job in an ammunitions factory, and it often kept him too busy to care for himself. Roderich did what he could, sending them parcels of food every now and then. It really wasn't like he much needed it. Besides, if rations kept being reduced, then soon there would be nothing left.

"Who did you suck off to get these?" Oktav snarled with suspicion one day when Roderich showed up at his doorstep with five wursts.

The Austrian was surprised- his friend had never spoken to him like that. But it looked like Oktav had not shaved for days, maybe even a week, and he smelled rank. Roderich heard nonsensical mumbling coming from somewhere in the house, and decided to leave the wursts and turn tail. War changed people; Roderich was foolish to think anyone could be exempted.

Before he left, though, he caught a flash of a curious sight. The _Giuseppe_ 1743 cello leaned against Oktav's rickety staircase, its bow cast on the floor beside it. It was still in its deplorable state, but it looked like it had been shined, and it seemed that Oktav had been playing it. He hadn't sold it after all.

* * *

A letter arrived for Roderich from Erich Fruehauf in late 1941. It went something like this:

_"Roderich, _

_I hope you are doing well, and still as Viennese as ever. Isn't it odd that each time I think of Vienna, you are the one person that comes infallibly to mind? It's almost as if you are the personification of Austria itself, if it were possible. I hope you are still practicing on your Bechstein, and I hope you have received the cello I left for Oktav. He was always such a kind boy; I believe he truly deserves it. How is he? _

_Thank you to all the aid you've given me over the years, for helping me start my earliest symphonies and being such a good comrade. Germany will never want me back, but it seems the United States has welcomed me with opened arms. I hope nothing unfortunate has befallen you, though it may be a bit of a far-fetched wish in these times. I am sending in conjunction with this note a bag of apricots and some canned ham. From Canada. _

_I myself now reside in the United States, though I have no permanent home. Nonetheless, I am doing quite well. Of course, Americans aren't the greatest musicians, and I have had to find a new job since coming here. I am currently studying nuclear fission with a group of physicists working under Albert Einstein. It's much like what I used to do back in Germany before I was forced to run, so I am not at all out of my 'element'. Ha! I made a joke!_

Truly, America holds such potential. It's really quite exciting and at the same time unnerving, because we are so lacking in resources. The President has approved of the project but has neglected to fund us. I think the bomb, when we develop it, if it works, will be a major turning point in the war against the Axis powers.

_I pray we can both hold onto our lives until then. _

_Your friend, _

_Erich Fruehauf" _

Ludwig found the letter and promptly tore it up. It was one of the few occasions he was visitingAustria, as he is usually halfway around the world, dropping bombs onBritainor invadingCanadaor some such ridiculous thing. But today he was in Roderich's home, and he had found the letter. He was very, very angry.

* * *

Alfred F. Jones was very, very angry. "Why the fuck would you write to an Austrian about our plans for the atomic bomb?"

Erich shrugged in his usual manner, feeling in his chest pocket for a cigar out of an old habit that refused to die. There were no more cigars, no more cigarettes, even. He could no longer afford it. "He is a good friend of mine."

"But Austria is allied withGermany," Alfred said, exasperated, "what if the Germans get a hold of our plans? Who knows if they read and censor letters? What exactly did you write?"

"Only that we were studying nuclear fission is all."

The blond American seemed relieved. "That's fine, I suppose. What is his name, if you don't mind?"

"I believe it's Roderich Edelstein."

For some reason Alfred seemed to react negatively to this, looking very put out and anxious, which confused Erich. Erich muttered a weak, "he's not Jewish, you know." But as quickly as the panic had settled in Alfred, it left. "Never mind that, the Germans are losing the war and they know it."

"The Germans themselves are engineering their own bomb," said Erich, "if Truman doesn't start funding us soon, we'll run out of time."

Alfred shook his head, an unruly lock of hair bouncing as he did so, "the Germans will not produce it fast enough. They also don't have adequate heavy water supplies, and have to depend onNorway. Not to mention that it is incredibly difficult and expensive to isolate uranium-235 from uranium-238, and money is one thing those Germans no longer have. We have time- if we need the funding, we'll make do with what we have. We'll scrounge up some money somehow and make the damn thing even if we have to hand make all our equipment out of cardboard." The young man looked no more than twenty five, twenty eight at most, but he spoke with a maturity far beyond his years. Erich could not help but admire this, "I suppose you are right."

The two men removed their lab coats and stepped out of the facility and into the dry night air, both looking exhausted and weary, having seen the potential for worldwide destruction in the off white of their gloves. It was late, and all their colleagues had already gone home.

"Let's go for a drink," Alfred growled as he wrenched open the door to his car, "We'll be driving for a while to get to the nearest town, but I'm fucking… Just… Thank God they're not rationing beer. The day they do it, I'm joining Hitler. Let's go."

_God bless America._

* * *

_Sometime in 1942._

There was madness in his eyes, and Roderich was afraid for it. "Ludwig, please, listen to me," the Austrian pleaded to no avail. The German was inebriated and neurotic, his great fists clenching so that the white of his knuckles could be just been defeated atStalingrad. Ludwig had not taken it well. He was still in his Luftwaffe uniform, which was stained with gasoline and dirt and stank of cigarette smoke.

"I don't understand," he pulled at his own hair, "why? Why? Why are they winning? Why are we losing?" and his eyes landed on Roderich, all prim and proper like he always was, and Ludwig drew the Austrian onto his chest, "I want to protect you," he whispered into Roderich's ear, "I won't let them take you."

Roderich closed his eyes and thought back to better times, to the times when he used to be so powerful. He had been drunk on it, just like all others. The concept of fair human behavior is always flawed, and in power comes eventual ruin. "All things fall, Ludwig, even your Reich."

He had expected some kind of violent comeback, but instead Ludwig just pressed him harder into him, as if wanting to physically become one. Eventually Roderich grew tired of the cigarette stench and moved to peel Ludwig's jacket off himself.

"I don't like what you do when you wear it, but I rather like your _Einsatzgruppen_uniform more," Roderich murmured distantly as he helped Ludwig shrug out of his uniform. Ludwig smiled fondly, still hearing gunshots, mines and missiles going off in the back of his head despite the relative quiet of Austria, "I did look rather handsome during the Anschluss parade, didn't I?"

Roderich stared. "You know that's not why." But he rather liked Ludwig's smile. It reminded him that yes; the man in front of him was still human. Roderich thought that if mankind were unable to smile, then there would truly be no return from cruelty. Ludwig clasped his hands behind the small of Roderich's back and pressed against him, breathing from the crook of the Austrian's neck, smelling the scent that was naturally him. It smelled like oranges and vanilla, and it was lovely.

"You haven't played for a while," Ludwig observed tiredly when he caught sight of the neglected piano, which had its cloths drawn and seemed to be gathering dust, "that is so unlike you; what is wrong?"

"I'm surprised you noticed," Roderich leaned his head against Ludwig's collarbone, too tired to put up his act, "but it is war, you understand, and I really am not sitting at home with nothing to do." He never thought about it this way before, but he had missed Ludwig greatly. He liked the weight of his hands on his back, liked the way his chest was hard and unmovable. He even liked the dirty stench of his sweat, so this was either a case of extreme loneliness, insanity or some other thing Roderich wouldn't care to admit.

But oh, how he longed to go to a good concert. How he longed to see the Athena theatre up and running again, how he longed for this war to just be over already.

Roderich could not help but strain his ears to Vienna's night, hoping to catch some strain of music- at this point, even a children's nursery rhyme would do. But there was no music other than the off tempo of shots being fired at irregular intervals. Occasionally there were commotions, screams and yells and cries, but those had been more frequent during the days of Jew-hunting. Now most of Austria's Jews had all but disappeared.

* * *

Roderich still visited Oktav whenever he could, but the man grew more and more unstable, so much so that on more than one occasion he threatened Roderich's safety. Then one day, just out of the ordinary, Oktav decided he wanted to join the Wehrmacht.

"You can't just leave," Roderich protested, "you have your mother at home- how will she manage?"

Oktav had a strange twitching all through his body, and sometimes stuttered and talked extremely quickly. It was not at all like his old patient, calm and precise self, "I don't fucking _know_, Roderich. I've lost everything- my music, my love, my life, my family… My father's things were sent back to us last week. He had his head blown off by some goddamn American, you know how- you know how I know? They sent me his fucking helmet with a fucking bullet hole in it. And you know what? I'm taking it with me, screw them all. That's what I'll fucking wear when I _blast Uncle Sam's motherfucking brains out._"

"Oh no you don't, Oktav," Roderich tried to stop him, he did, but Oktav flung his arm at the Austrian and almost struck him in the face, sending him reeling. The raven haired man was breathing rapidly, dark circles having formed under his eyes and his body having grown weak from hunger. But how was that possible? Roderich sent food and gifts and money to the boy whenever he could.

Then it hit him. Oktav had sold what he had given him for alcohol. The stench of it was everywhere, on everything. A wall was punched in and several pieces of furniture were overturned. Roderich could not imagine spending a night under this roof. Perhaps it was for the best…

Indeed, Otkav admitted that he'd sold what Roderich had given him, but claimed that the alcohol allowed him to escape from his misery better than proper nutrition, apparently. Strangely enough, his mother was physically quite healthy the last time he visited, though her mental constitution was really not any better, Roderich heard. He wasn't allowed to see her, never was, but he admired Oktav's strength for having held out so long.

"But what will happen to her, now?"

Oktav gave no reply, just slowly turned around and started to mechanically make his way up his staircase as if possessed. Intrigued, Roderich followed him, up the creaking stairs and into the upstairs hallway that smelled distinctly of yeast and rotting newspapers. Somewhere, a ceiling leak dripped. "Nein, it is not necessary if she does not wish it," Roderich stammered quickly when he realized Oktav was opening the door to his mother's room, the room she locked herself in and never came out of unless to use to toilet. She couldn't even wash herself, and Roderich had always respected her dignity.

But Oktav shook his head slowly and motioned with a quick movement for Roderich to take a peek.

The Austrian almost lost his meager lunch. There was Oktav's mother, not at all in good physical condition like Roderich had previously thought. In fact, she was literally a _skeleton_. The flesh had long since been peeled from her skin by rodents, it seemed, for Roderich was loathe to consider the alternative. She must have been dead for months. The room stank with the sweet musk of decomposing flesh and flies clung to every surface. Roderich had never seen anything quite like it.

"She says I'm crazy for wanting to join so late in the war, since we all know Germany might well loose," Oktav said absently, trudging into the room and holding up one of his mother's skeletal hands, a long strip of blackened skin still hanging at her finger, "isn't that right, ma?"

Roderich wanted to run, just run away and never come back. Oktav's eyes fixed themselves on him, though, speared him in his spot. They were a stormy silver, his eyes. "Won't you play for us, Roderich? I know you're not a cellist, but mama has heard all about you."

It was the strangest audience he ever had, even more awkward than the time he played for Ludwig stark naked. Roderich went downstairs, took the cracked _Giuseppe_ by its neck and walked past the front door and up the stairs. He didn't even consider running away, because something told him that Oktav would wait for him forever with his mother's hand in his if he did so.

He started to the third suite for cello by Bach, in the key of C before Oktav stopped him quite rudely, "Nein, Roderich. I would like you to play a Kodaly."

Roderich wasn't even sure if that was allowed. But who cared if he played a Kodaly on a ruined cello to an insane man and his dead mother?

He was not very good at it, and the cracked instrument sounded utterly dismal, but he played. _Hary Janos_, Oktav's favorite. He played and played and lost himself in a past time that was far too recent for his liking, when he went to theaters at nights and laughed with the same man which he now feared, looking at him with empty, dead eyes.

"Thank you, Roderich."

"Nein, it is my pleasure."

Roderich took the _Giuseppe_ with him when he left and never once looked back. That was the last time anyone heard of Oktav Blau again.

The next time Roderich visited the house, it was in ruins and no trace of the happy family that once lived there could be found.

* * *

_August 30, 1945_

Adolf Hitler died. Suicide. Roderich was in his home when he heard the news, and it didn't surprise him at all. Ludwig, too, was gone. Nothing drew any sort of emotional response from him anymore.

He listened to the deafening silence inside his head and knew that soon music would return to Austria.

* * *

_April, 1945_

"Pardon?" The Austrian lowered his papers, staring with wide eyes at the couple seated at the table next to him, "what did you just say?"

The other man, an American it seemed, turned to face him. "That it was only one bomb. And now Hiroshima is just _gone_."

"Oh," was all he could say. A low buzzing started in his left ear, and it stayed with him throughout the day. He left the cafe after calmly finishing off his afternoon tea. He moved as if in a trance, buying eggs from the market and sitting in the streetcars trying to keep them from toppling over. He couldn't dodge the crowds cheering in the streets, and did lose a few eggs on the way home. _Oh well._ He turned the key of his apartment in its keyhole and breathed in the scent of melancholy.

* * *

The war was over.

Millions of Jews, slavs, gypsies, and homosexuals died in camps and no one noticed. He didn't want to think about it- he tuned his radio, catching the faint hum of static before a BBC news station came into sharp focus. It was Windston Churchill speaking.

"…From Stetin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an Iron Curtain has descended across the continent. Behind that line lie all the capitals of the ancient states of central and eastern Europe- Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna…"

Octav died in the war, his cause of death was undisclosed. Roderich wondered if he'd died fighting the enemy, or died a deserter's death. It pained him too much to think of it, and so he didn't. He stashed his photographs with the other young man away, even burned some of them.

Traitorously, life in Austria mended itself. Strains of forgotten compositions flitted up from the streets; soldiers returning from duty peppered the roads. They were coming back to ruined homes and scattered families, but they would live as long as they held to their spirits. Liberated Jews found refuge in allied countries, though some dared to return in search of their loved ones. Most of them found only ashes and the horrible inevitability of war, but their blood was still German, and Austria was where they belonged.

Safe between the walls of his home, Roderich heard about how the British had found so many dead at German camps that they had to bury them with bulldozers. Sometimes it was hard to believe that this sort of horrible thing actually occurred- and how Austria, even in his relative freedom, had done nothing to put a stop to it. When he thought of it, he had to fight back the urge to vomit.

He didn't know what possessed him to accept Erich Fruehauf's invitation to a vacation in America, but he went nonetheless. He could use the change in scenery.

In America, jazz was quite popular; Roderich could listen to it for ages, having not heard a lick of it during the war.

"How did you manage to evade the Nazis?" Fruehauf tapped his cigarette and took a long drag, "I can't believe you're still alive."

"I am lucky," said Roderich numbly, "I don't know how it happened, either. It just happened that way. Sometimes there are things you just can't control."

"Every Jew I knew in Austria is dead," the blond composer was blunt, "except for you."

"I am not a Jew."

At this, Erich paused and regarded him with a curious incredulity. "Then are you Austria?"

His dead heart tumbling against his ribs, Roderich started, "p-pardon?"

The other was dead serious. "Are you Austria, then?"

"I…"

"I think you are. Because survive is what Austria does. Anschluss, the draft, the Nazis, allied bombing, occupation by four armies, even the holocaust." Erich shifted in his seat, "I think you must be Austria personified."

Suddenly, Roderich no longer cared if Erich Fruehauf discovered his secret. "Yes," he agreed solemnly, "I am Austria, and I have blood on my hands."

"We all do," Erich picked up a cup of coffee and took a sip, and at this Roderich remembered his own drink, its contents quickly cooling. The brew was thick and deep- too rich for the Austrian after years of watered down teas and war-replacement products. It was all he could do to take slight sips at it. "We all do," the other man said again, "you made your choices, and I made mine. I might as well have been the one to drop those things on Japan; I did help design it."

"…You helped end the war."

"At what cost?" Fruehauf snapped, surprising his companion, "I can't even sleep at night anymore. It will be years until I can finally come to understand the scope of what I've done, what we've all done as a collective whole, and what humanity has become." His eyes softened, and his whole face drooped in sad exasperation, "and then what happens? I don't want to live to know."

Hearing this, Roderich could no longer hold back his anger. He dropped his cup on the saucer so roughly that splashes of the coffee dotted the lace tablecloth, "do not dare think of such a thing, Erich. I will not lose another friend. You are the only one left that means anything at all to me."

"I… I can't…" Erich buried his face in his hands and took deep, heaving breaths, "I don't…"

Austria watched his friend, the man that used to be so prideful and so strong, break down completely before him in the middle of a busy American eatery. The scene was so offhandedly sordid that he felt the urge to laugh. Instead, he asked Erich to come with him back to Vienna.

"I could never return there," the blond gasped, still not looking at him. "I can't go back and look at the whitewashed walls and smell that stench of death lurking in the streets. I can't go back, knowing that I ran from it for myself."

"Do you not miss the fripperies? The operas and the music?"

Erich considered this for a moment, his eyes glazing over as he thought of all the laughter and love he'd once held for the city. What he said next made Austria's heart crumble.

"I don't think I can ever enjoy music again."

* * *

_Sometime in the 1950's._

Life went on in Vienna.

Roderich moved houses because he could no longer bear to look out his window and see the same destroyed buildings. So now he lived across another set of destroyed buildings that somehow made him feel more at ease. And he felt his very spirit being repaired as every day he watched the other house being rebuilt. He had his old _Bechstein_ delivered to his new home, but he left it there in the unpainted guestroom, draped in white and gathering dust. Looking at it and remembering Ludwig's eyes on him made him hurt.

A year after his last visit to America, he received a note from Erich Fruehauf. And then a package came.

Roderich opened the package before he did the note, and horrified surprise shot through his very line when he uncovered Erich's _Geigenbaumeifter_. This was the violin the composer had held so close to him, allowing only his best and brightest students the chance to make it sing. Even without looking at the accompanying note, Roderich knew Erich was dead.

The violin felt oddly heavy nestled against his neck, its weight and shape no longer familiar to the Austrian. He fumbled and grappled, but eventually found an acceptable position for the thing. He set the bow against the strings and pulled, the terrible cacophony of unturned sound screeching from the beautiful instrument. Roderich cried out, and wanted to fling the damned thing away from him before he remembered how much it meant to Erich; how much it now meant to _him_. He tuned and twisted and plucked all afternoon until evening came.

Then he played Kodaly's _Hary Janos_. The music was stunted; sometimes Roderich forgot which notes came next, sometimes he repeated entire stanzas or missed crescendos, but his tears still dropped when he heard the familiar tune. All the memories he'd blocked rudely wrenched their way back into his mind, unwelcomed, like the Gestapo breaking down doors in the wee hours of the morning. He remembered all at once Octav's kind smile before it turned lurid, remembered the way the gentle boy climbed into his house through the window on the day of Anschluss to comfort him with Kodaly. This same song.

And Roderich himself had played _Hary Janos_ for Octav and his dead mother the last time they were together. It was like saying goodbye but not really, because even now Roderich felt the younger man's skilled hand pressed over his and guiding his bow. He played the song over and over again until it was as if he had never stopped playing; all the nuances and small tricks came back to him, and the night whiled away like that. Erich was dead, too. And Roderich, _Austria_, still lived.

The thought made him stop. That, and the odd sound coming from underneath Roderich's open window. Shaking and cramped everywhere from exhaustion, he gingerly set the lacquered violin against the wall under the window, and looked down into the streets.

A young man was clapping frantically, "that was very _gutt_, sir!" he shouted when he saw Roderich's head emerge in the dark, "c-can you play anything else?"

Astonished, Roderich felt warmth spread across his chest. The war had done much damage, but there were some things that still would not change. "I daresay I can play anything," he fondly teased the overeager man below, dressed in an ugly wool vest and modest pants. The impact of his words made him sway on his feet- _he could play anything he wanted now._ Before he could stop himself, he added, "would you like to come up for a cup of tea?"

The young man's name was Andre, and he was just shy of twenty. He was timid, though soon admitted he was a pianist. Roderich poured Andre a cup of weak black tea and, for the first time in years, uncovered the grand piano left neglected in his guestroom. The youth's face light up like sunshine and his fingers twitched at his sides, the cup of tea forgotten. He swallowed nervously, "I- I can play some Debussy, but I am n-not very good."

The edges of Austria's lips quirked up. "Then I will teach you. Come, show me what you know."

* * *

_End._

* * *

...Damn, I don't even know what to say about this. Writing this was emotionally draining- this whole piece is just depressing as hell. War changes people; I cannot stress that enough. I personally know people who have gone to war, whether it be the Second World War, the war in the former Yugoslavia, Bosnia, and present day Afghanistan. Whether you are a soldier or a civilian in a war-torn state, your life changes completely.

And what is there to do once the destruction ends? Where to go after that? How can you even hope to recover from something so devastating? Yet even in the darkest times, there is hope. For humanity is capable of miracles; it is in our nature to spring back and move forward.

**Please review if you've read.** It'd mean a lot to me. Thanks.


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